so live life like you're giving up ('cuz you act like you are)
by Afterthought and Ellipses
Summary: God, it hurts to move. Honestly, she's surprised she's even alive. She can't even lift a finger without having a bolt of pain strike through her body. But then again, such things are to be expected if a building collapses on top of you, she supposes. A bullet to the head would have been better, really.


A/N: This is the first time I'm not writing for Harry Potter, and that frightens me a little bit. But God, I love Marvel and Romanogers so much, it hurts me physically. Also, I haven't written a fanfic in about three years (holy shit), so I'm a little rusty.

Disclaimer: The title is from Ed Sheeran's "Even My Dad Does Sometimes", and the chapter titles will probably all be from Hamilton (because that has taken over my life, as well) so none of them are mine and neither are any of the characters from Marvel.

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Chapter I: I imagine death so much it feels more like a memory.

God, it hurts to move.

Honestly, she's surprised she's even alive. She can't even lift a finger without having a bolt of pain strike through her body. But then again, such things are to be expected if a building collapses on top of you, she supposes. And she really wouldn't have known any better as (thankfully), this is the first time that this has happened in her line of work (and hopefully, it's the last, because damn, everything _fucking_ hurts).

A bullet to the head would have been better, really.

The makeshift hospital room at the new Avengers compound that she's in is filled by the entire team (plus an enormous teddy bear courtesy of one Tony Stark). They're worriers, the whole lot of them, all fussing about and constantly asking her if she needs anything. Hell, Thor had brought down bottles of some difficult-to-pronounce Asgardian potion that would supposedly help her heal faster than "mortals normally would", but really, after seeing what Asgardian liquor could do to mortals, she'll take a pass, thanks very much. No one is a worse worrier than Steve, though. She's been told that he'd never left her side the entire time she'd been unconscious (four days – that's a little more than half a week), and if anyone had dared to try and send him out, he'd done his best impression of her infamous glare and they'd scurry out of the room faster than Pietro would have, God rest his soul (she doesn't really believe in God – or any other deity for that matter but Steve has used the phrase more than enough times for it to rub off on her). He barely leaves her side the whole 18 hours she's been awake, either, tenser than usual, but still there.

And it should be annoying how clingy he is – but she just finds it cute. Whatever the hell that's supposed to mean.

By the time the sun sets, a doctor and some nurses come in and adamantly request the team to leave and give her time to rest, and she finds it impressive that they have the guts to tell the freaking _Avengers_ what to do. Tony whines (as he's known to do), Clint fusses some more, and it's a whole lot of noises, half-shouts (mostly from Tony), and Wanda's body starts being surrounded by some red ethereal glow until Steve quietly requests all of them, sans the doctor and nurses, to get the hell out of Natasha's room before he forces them out himself. He's on edge, she can tell.

The doctor makes a feeble attempt to ask Steve to leave as well but he's not having any of that. Instead, he sits down on the couch next to her bed and gives the doctor a pointed look that practically screams "make me". The doctor blanches a little bit and they check her vitals, ask her a few questions ("What hurts, Agent Romanoff?" "Fucking everything, doctor. You try having a building collapse on top of you." "Well, clearly, no permanent damage has been done to your brain, Agent Romanoff.").

And then she and Steve are alone.

It's not unusual for them to be in the same space and spend hours in silence. But in the past few months, they've grown close. They led the team together, and that didn't just mean that they trained them together, no. They've gone to dinner to discuss plans and strategies, attended meetings with Fury, muttering side-comments to each other under their breath (they're 100% sure that Fury hears them, it's just fun watching him raise his eyebrow at them, as if they were children caught doing something naughty in class), spar with each other, binge-watch shows and movies on Netflix together. In the past few months, their friendship had been filled with words, smiles, laughter, and teases – not silence.

Not uncomfortable ones, anyway.

And this was definitely uncomfortable.

She looks at him and says "You should go and rest too, Rogers."

He stares at her, his eyes angry and she's never seen him like this. It's as if his world has fallen apart, and she is the one to blame. "What the _hell_ were you thinking, Nat?" he asks, seething.

"Rogers, I—" she starts but he cuts her off "I don't understand why you were so _fucking_ reckless. You were supposed to protect the civilians, not go running off to chase _one_ Hydra agent. Alone."

"The civilians were safe with Vision, and you know that." she replies.

"Then you could have asked _him_ to chase after the perp, and not you." He retorts, leaning forward from the couch, hands gripping the metal bars on her bed. They're bending a little at the force of his grip.

"And so what – Vision is more dispensable than I am? Are you delusional, Rogers?" she makes a move to sit up, but he pushes her back down and says "That is _not_ what I'm saying, don't twist my words, and manipulate me, Romanoff."

And – it's funny how that's what gets to her more than his implication that she isn't capable of handling herself. He hasn't called her Romanoff in so long. He calls her 'Nat' often, 'Tasha' when he's being sweet, and 'Natalia' when he comforts her and chases away the nightmares that plague her at night. Romanoff means he's distancing himself away from her.

"I know the risks that this job entails." She looks away from him, flipping on the switch that transforms 'Natasha' into 'Black Widow'. "I am more than willing to die if it means that innocent people are safe."

He backs off a little, and runs his hands through his hair. "God damn it, Natasha. I know there are risks, I know that there's a good chance either of us could die in any mission that we're sent into. But, for Christ's sake, that doesn't give you the luxury to thoughtlessly get yourself killed. There was _no_ need for you to come after that agent. We would have gotten to him sooner or later." He pauses, takes a deep breath and stares at her "You just seem to be so willing to sacrifice yourself for some reason lately."

"I'm not."

"The nurses in the facility know you so well that they're not even afraid of you anymore. You're in here every other day because you've either worked too damn hard in the gym, gotten yourself blown up because you were too stubborn to run before the goddamn grenade hit the ground, and now, you've managed to get a building to collapse on top of you when you could have called Sam to get you before it did." Steve responds.

"Didn't know you cared so much, Steve." She replies, icily.

He chuckles darkly and stands up, making his way towards the door. "Fine, be that way. You think it was Vision who pulled you out of that wreckage? I almost saw you die, Nat. And I did everything I could to prevent that from happening because you have so much good left to do." She has nothing to say to that. It's an open secret that she thinks so little of herself – of her worth. All she knows is how to murder people in a thousand, different ways.

And yet, Steve seems to think she's capable of so much more.

"Steve, I –"

"But if you just want to give up, be my guest." He slams the door so hard that the glass cracks.

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A/N: Let me know what you think, yeah? :)


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